


When the wind blows them out

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As soon as Finrod meets Bëor, he is fascinated by the differences between the Firstborn and the Secondborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the wind blows them out

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course, from the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth. Although the context is somewhat different I thought it was somewhat appropriate for this.

There was certainly something different about them. That was the first thing Finrod thought. Even then there was a strange, undefinably distinct quality to their movements. Their voices, though pitched the same, had a different intonation that he could hear regardless of language.

He had put down the harp, stopped playing, the last notes falling gracelessly into the hush around the fire. They were speaking amongst themselves, whispering in a strange tongue; they did not understand his words. Finrod barely paused; he barely thought about what he was going to do. He let his eyes roam the group of faces watching him fascinated, some still talking amongst themselves. His gaze caught on the face of a man who looked as though he might be the leader, if only by the way he held himself. Finrod held that gaze for a moment (strange eyes, he thought, in the back of his consciousness) and let his mind brush the man’s, very gently.

It was nothing like what he had expected. He felt himself twitch, breaking the connection, startled. The very texture of their thoughts seemed different, and yet it was not, he realised, that was not it; it was just that he this man, their leader, had never touched the mind of another before. Could it be that they did not use thoughts to communicate? Never? Finrod’s own thoughts spiralled at the implications. The man was still watching him, something in his eyes now. Fear, yes, a deep-seated wariness, but also wonder. Curiosity.

“I am a friend” said Finrod weakly, in Sindarin, before remembering, and, taking a deep breath, let his mind touch the man’s again. It was more than a simple brushing of thoughts this time, and Finrod let his words flow through the connection, strengthening it all the while.  _Balan_ … the name fell unlooked for into the forefront of Finrod’s mind like a stone dropping into a pool. Balan’s face was twisted, just a little; Finrod frowned, wondering if he had hurt him. Sometimes the thoughts of another could snag in the mind at first, grating past each other instead of meshing, and if these people were not used to it… then something shifted in Balan’s eyes, and Finrod felt the connection between them snap tight, bright and strong. He smiled around the clearing. They could speak, now, but words, he supposed, would have to come later. 

The words did come later; many words, as it happened. There was so much life in these people, Finrod thought. Their existences had a raw edge that shocked him; they sickened so easily, and then after a mere less than a century, they would simply be drawn away, shrivelling into small grey husks like ashes at the end of a fire. It frustrated him, for he did not understand, and Finrod had always liked to understand things. It disturbed him, a little. But he loved them, too. 

Balan was Bëor now, and his life was fading, Finrod knew with a kind of sick dread. They would sit about the fire and watch the sparks fly upwards and fall again as whispering grey flecks, born away on the quiet breeze, and they would talk. Slow and ponderous were their conversations, winding this way and that. Only Finrod seemed to feel the urgency, the sense of running out of time. Which was odd, he reflected, since he was the one who’s life would stretch on. He was not the one who was dying by inches every day. 

Finrod had rarely prayed to the Valar since the Ice and the exile. He was not entirely sure what he was doing at present  _was_  praying, but his mind was often back in Valinor now, trying, belatedly, to remember scraps of what he had learned of these people there. Of what he had been taught as a child of the mind of the One. He remembered staring up into the great dome atop Taniquetil as Manwë had spoken, his child’s dreams far away, his attention wandering. He remembered Fëanor and his words about the Valar and their plans for the Secondborn, and thought how wrong they had all had it. 

Bëor slipped away too, in his time. Finrod was not at his side when it happened. Strange, he thought, how the generations slid by like the summers had all those long years ago in the West. He wondered what happened to their  _fëar_ , for surely they did not go to Mandos? Could it be that they were reimbodied, born into the form of a child of the next generation? If so, why? Finrod tried to ask them, sometimes, once or twice a generation.

But no one seemed to know.

 ——

It was so dark that it made no difference whether Finrod opened his eyes or closed them. Listening to the ragged sound of Beren’s breathing echoing against the stones of the dungeon, Finrod thought of Bëor, all those years ago.

Was it dark where he was too?


End file.
